The Scent of Winter: A Novella
Page 8
Søren moved down Kingsley’s body and nudged his thighs apart with his knees. Kingsley moaned as he always did when Søren took possession of him. As usual, Søren laughed his mocking laugh.
“Whore,” Søren said, and Kingsley smiled.
“You made me this way,” Kingsley said.
“Hardly. You were born a whore. All I did was find your price.”
Kingsley laughed, but the laugh died in a heartbeat when Søren pressed two very wet fingers inside him. The violation was so delicious that Kingsley turned his face into the pillow to stifle his own sigh of bliss. He’d debased himself enough already tonight.
“Do you like it?” Søren asked.
“Yes.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Yes.”
“It’s all the same to you, isn’t it?” Søren asked, his tone taunting. He slid off the bed and finished undressing. “Why is that, I wonder?”
“Just lucky, I guess,” Kingsley said, watching him.
“Or you’re a whore for me?”
“This isn’t fair. She gets the cute pet name ‘Little One’ but I’m ‘Whore’?”
“You want me to start calling you ‘Little One’?”
Kingsley thought about that.
“No, bad idea,” he said. “Terrible idea. Forgot I said anything. ‘Whore’ is perfect.”
Søren slid back on top of him. Slowly but not too slowly, Søren entered him fully. And then, because Kingsley had apparently been a very good boy this year, Søren kissed his back from shoulder to shoulder and neck to the bottom rib. “I love when you do that, too…”
“Stop talking,” Søren said, “or I will cut your tongue out, put a metal hook through it, and hang it on the Christmas tree as our one and only ornament.”
Kingsley stopped talking.
He couldn’t have spoken if he’d wanted to. Søren thrust into him and Kingsley was rendered speechless. The only sounds he could make were inarticulate cries of pain and pleasure, the combination of the two far more potent than they ever could be apart. Søren filled and filled him utterly, completely, to the breaking point.
Yet Kingsley didn’t break.
Søren bit down hard on the back of Kingsley’s neck like lions did when mating. But it wasn’t enough to hold him with his teeth, and Søren had Kingsley by the wrists again. He was spread out and staked, split open and pinned down. Søren gave with long deep rough thrusts and Kingsley took and he took and he took, happy to be used by this man he loved, happier still to be loved by this man who used him.
What he would remember most fondly from this little trip away from the world, Kingsley didn’t know, but if he had to guess he would say it would like be the vision of Søren’s hand clamped over his wrist and the black leather jess against the white sheets. Kingsley’s cock throbbed, desperate to be touched, but he was content to wait. He needed Søren to come in him more than Kingsley needed to come for him. Søren was close. Kingsley could tell from the sound of Søren’s ragged breathing. The grip on Kingsley’s wrists grew even tighter and he whimpered in pain, forgetting momentarily that grown men do not whimper.
Søren’s thrusts grew even harder, somehow even deeper and Kingsley could do nothing but dig his fingers into the bed to brace himself. The teeth at the nape of his neck broke the skin and Kingsley flinched and cried out as Søren poured into him, filling him and sealing them together. Kingsley grunted, unhappy when Søren pulled out but then he found himself being turned over onto his back again, and Søren was kissing his way down Kingsley’s sweating chest and stomach. Søren took him in his mouth and the sudden shock of wet heat on his cock was too much to bear. Kingsley orgasmed as powerfully as he had that night in the woods when Søren had deigned to pleasure him. He came so hard his back arched, lifting his shoulders off the bed. He almost took flight. It felt like he could have. He could have but he didn’t, he wouldn’t. Something kept him grounded and that something wasn’t the leash on his ankle but the love that bound him to Søren tighter than any collar, cord, or fetter.
When it was all over, Søren brought him a tin cup full of water so cold it set Kingsley’s teeth on edge. Søren dragged him to a sitting position and held the cup while Kingsley drank. When he finished, Kingsley collapsed back onto the bloody pillow. The blood was his of course. A few drops spilling from the bite mark on his back. Søren lay on his back and Kingsley rested his head on Søren’s stomach, which was always his favorite place to sleep. Especially if Søren’s hand was wrapped up in his hair just as it was right then.
They were silent for a long time, doing nothing but breathing together. Kingsley closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of winter on Søren’s stomach. It smelled not just of the cold of winter and the bitterness of winter and the purity of winter, but the wildness of winter, too. It was an untamed season as dangerous as it was beautiful.
“I was right,” Kingsley said.
“About what?”
“When I said I would still love you when I was fifty.” Kingsley lifted his head and met Søren’s eyes. “Thank you for bringing me here, for telling me the truth.”
“Thank you for forgiving me.”
Kingsley nodded and laid his head down again.
“Is it after midnight?” Kingsley asked.
“It is.”
“Happy birthday.”
“It is indeed.”
“What would you like for your birthday?” Kingsley asked.
“One big French whore,” Søren said. “Preferably male. Ideally a masochist of the extreme variety.”
“In a pear tree?”
“Optional.”
“Good news,” Kingsley said. “I happen to have a masochistic French whore on me. And he’s all yours.”
“What to do with him…” Søren said, sighing contentedly.
“Keep him,” Kingsley said. “Keep him and never lose him.”
“I don’t have to. He’s quite good at losing himself.”
“Yes,” Kingsley said, wincing. “Sorry about that.”
“I swear on all that is holy, if you ever get lost in the woods again...”
“You’ll kill me?”
Søren dug his hands deep into Kingsley’s hair, holding it so tight he whimpered.
“No,” Søren said. “I’ll find you.”
About the Author
Tiffany Reisz is the author of the internationally bestselling and award-winning Original Sinners series for Mira Books (Harlequin/Mills & Boon). Tiffany’s books inhabit a sexy shadowy world where romance, erotica, and literature meet and do immoral and possibly illegal things to each other. She describes her genre as “literary friction,” a term she stole from her main character, who gets in trouble almost as often as the author herself.
She lives in Lexington, Kentucky. If she couldn’t write, she would die.
Follow on social media, or visit Tiffany’s website for free short stories and to subscribe to the Tiffany Reisz e-mail newsletter:
@tiffanyreisz
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www.tiffanyreisz.com
Books by Tiffany Reisz
Novels
THE BOURBON THIEF
THE NIGHT MARK
* * *
Original Sinners Novels
THE SIREN
THE ANGEL
THE PRINCE
THE MISTRESS
THE SAINT
THE KING
THE VIRGIN
THE QUEEN
* * *
Harlequin Blaze Novels
HER HALLOWEEN TREAT
HER NAUGHTY HOLIDAY
ONE HOT DECEMBER
* * *
Novellas
THE GIFT (previously published as SEVEN DAY LOAN)
LITTLE RED RIDING CROP
IMMERSED IN PLEASURE
SUBMIT TO DESIRE
THE MISTRESS FILES
MISBEHAVING
THE LAST GOOD KNIGHT (PARTS I—V)
THE CONFESSION OF MARCUS STEARNS
THE HEADMASTER
SEIZE THE NIGHT
THE CONFESSION OF ELEANOR SCHREIBER
SOMETHING NICE
IAN’S DREAM GIRL
THE SCENT OF WINTER
The Scent of Winter
Copyright © 2016 Tiffany Reisz
All rights reserved. No part of this publications may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher, 8th Circle Press, Lexington, Kentucky, U.S.A.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living, or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Andrew Shaffer
Front cover image used under license from Shutterstock.com.
www.8thcirclepress.com
First Edition